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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29282874">Pull the Cold Away</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skaty_not_Stoppy/pseuds/Skaty_not_Stoppy'>Skaty_not_Stoppy</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Barbara Gordon is Oracle, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Character Death, Damian Wayne Needs a Hug, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sad Ending, Stephanie Brown Needs a Hug, Stephanie Brown is Batgirl</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 05:00:31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,244</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29282874</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skaty_not_Stoppy/pseuds/Skaty_not_Stoppy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Because, you know, she’s dying, right? The broken rib and the wheeze in her breath and the whisper of pain at the base of her skull and the tiredness that drags down her veins sorta indicate it’s heading that way. It’s so obviously dying that Oracle would have used this exact situation as a hypothetical for when to seek medical attention.</p>
<p>Huh, Oracle would be pissed. Well, she would maybe angst and cry for a while, but then she would be pissed. And Stephanie wouldn’t even be there for her patented it’s-not-my-fault excuse. Which is a shame, because she has a good one this time.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Arthur Brown &amp; Stephanie Brown, Stephanie Brown &amp; Bruce Wayne, Stephanie Brown &amp; Damian Wayne, Stephanie Brown/Tim Drake</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>78</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Pull the Cold Away</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Tim,” she says. Her fingers twitch, but her arm won’t quite lift. It's exhausting, anyways. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Pity. It would feel so nice to touch him. The shock of black hair attached to the green, yellow, red. He’s kneeling beside her with his fingers hovering over her legs and chest, like he cares enough to be afraid to touch her. Her eyes can’t quite focus enough to make out any other details, but that’s okay. He’s so bright against the darkness. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Tim,” she repeats, and the blur that must be his lips moves. Like he’s talking to her. It’s impossible to hear him. There’s a very loud buzz with very unpleasant edges sitting somewhere underneath her ears. But it would be comforting words. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I love you, </span>
  </em>
  <span>or </span>
  <em>
    <span>you’ll be okay, </span>
  </em>
  <span>or </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t die on me, Steph. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It doesn’t matter anyways. It’s not </span>
  <em>
    <span>real</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Tim hasn’t worn that suit in years. It’s a hallucination. A very nice dying hallucination.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Because, you know, she’s dying, right? The broken rib and the wheeze in her breath and the whisper of pain at the base of her skull and the tiredness that drags down her veins sorta indicate it’s heading that way. It’s so obviously dying that Oracle would have used this exact situation as a hypothetical for </span>
  <em>
    <span>when to immediately call for medical attention, Stephanie, for the love of God please listen to this part</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Huh, Oracle would be pissed. Well, she would maybe angst and cry for a while, but then she would be pissed. And Stephanie wouldn’t even be there for her patented it’s-not-my-fault excuse. Which is a shame, because she has a good one this time. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I retired three years ago, I don’t have anyway to call for help, I can’t stand up to go find help. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span> Well, could she stand up? That’s a good question. She probably shouldn’t just curl up and let go. Because she remembers dying, and that was not a good time. Also, it might be considered a dick move — although, hopefully not a Dick move — to let someone find her body before she even let the bats know she was in town again. Actual Tim would be mad, at least. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>This is nice, though. Her tattered body feels like a warm blanket. It would be weird to move, it would be strange to move. It would </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurt</span>
  </em>
  <span> to move. And this is so much nicer than the last time she died. There’s no intense-ache, fade-away, someone-screaming-something. There isn’t the same bone-deep feeling of being alone. There’s no feeling of </span>
  <em>
    <span>need</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Hallucina-Tim bobs up and down, like he doesn’t know what part of her to worry about first. It could be nice. To drift away with this Tim right next to her. Just let the death come. It would be so easy.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Easy?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Wait, hold on a second, when did she accept death? That’s not right, that’s not her. Stephanie Brown came back from the dead with the express purpose of not dying again.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She needs to fight against this, do the opposite of what her body tells her. She needs to get up, find help. Her palms found the ground, and there are tiny rocks there and it’s cold, and her back starts pulling up against something that feels like bricks. That’s real. Hold onto that. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Then hallucina-Tim is right there, and his palm finds her shoulder and pushes </span>
  <em>
    <span>down</span>
  </em>
  <span>. And won’t let go. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No, Tim,” she whines. Why won’t he let her up? This isn’t a drug thing. There shouldn’t be a part of her brain becoming physical-ish and trying to stop her from not dying. Something about this doesn’t add up.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Tim pushes her down, harder. There’s no strength to fight, and she slumps back down. Pain starts filtering back in. Even through the sweater, very piece of skin he’s touching glows red hot. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Hallucina-Tim is saying something, again. His words are words this time, just splintered apart by the buzzing. She grasps at the pieces. Her skull aches, but there’s something </span>
  <em>
    <span>here</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Civilian,” words too quick to catch, “need medical attention,” everything </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurts</span>
  </em>
  <span>, “seems to think that I’m Drake.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>No, wait. Those words, that tone of voice. That’s not Tim. That’s not something her brain would invent. This is not a hallucination, this is really happening. Which means that it must be— </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It slams into her. This is real. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Wake up.</span>
  </em>
  <span> The buzzing leaves a little, her eyesight kinda clears. This is an alleyway, everything hurts, her back is propped up against a building that probably launders money somehow. And the person in front of her is— </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>No, no, no, no, no, no, no. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Calm down,” Damian says. “It is going to be okay.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” she forces it out, “you can’t be here.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>You can’t see this, you’re just a kid.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Damian’s head tilts away from her, and he must be talking to someone on comms. “Do not worry, she appears to be in a hallucinatory state. I do not know what caused it. Possibly. I shall wait and see if there are signs of Scarecrow joining the fray. Send an ambulance as soon as possible.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>No ambulances, Scarecrow </span>
  <em>
    <span>joining in</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Which means that there’s already something happening. Probably something big, hence her father being so drunk and so drunk on power this afternoon. And that means no immediate medical attention. And that means that if Damian’s planning to wait with her, he’ll be watching when she—</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“A civilian. No idea what she is doing here.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Her brain starts pulsing with pain, and it becomes so much harder to reason things out. But being confused about her being here? That much mean her dad dumped her somewhere that was supposed to be evacuated already. Which means she’s been out for a while. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No, her injuries are too grievous to allow identification. She does not seem conscious enough to catalogue said injuries.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Civilian. How did she miss that? Damian doesn’t even know. That would make it easier, right? To get him to leave her here to die. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Die. Her breath catches and clutches around the thought. Everything hurts. Everything spasms and she has no control. She’s dying, again.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Calm down.” Damian drops his hand from her shoulder. It hurts even more. “Help is on the way.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He’s so sweet now. Talking to a civilian even when he’s sure they can’t hear him. Maybe she helped that happen. It would be nice if she did. Probably not, though.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Stephanie would follow the instructions if she could, but it’s all out of her control. Spasming, spasming, spasming. It hurts so much worse each time. It hurts so much to breathe. Is there blood in her lungs, or is it just some kind of fluid, or is it just too much air? Did she even pay attention in that biology class?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His voice drops lower, feels closer. He is leaning over her body, hands lightly touching each arm like he’s trying to single handedly re-create a medical bed’s straps. “Please, calm down.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She tries to control them, and it just feels like directing them inwards. But he shouldn’t see this. Not when he looks so young, so vulnerable. Also so much older than he was when they met. How old, sixteen now? That’s a terrible age, that’s how old she was the first time she— </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Please.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Go. I don’t want you to see this.” Her arm lifts itself, and his grip gives way, and she manages to place her fingers on top of his hair. The fingers shake, pulsing with pain. It’s the best she can manage, a facsimile of the way she’d comb through it during patrol when he really was a brat. It hurts so badly, but it’s important, goddamnit. “You’re just a kid. Just a kid.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Which is the wrong thing to say. Which is exactly the wrong thing to say. It must carve too close to something she said, way back when, because his face goes blank and she can see him putting together all of the pieces. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Then he pulls his head away. Her fingers slide and slap back onto the ground. It’s so cold and it all aches. Pain, pain, pain. Damian is fumbling away at something. Her sweater. It’s been caked with dirt. The colour completely unrecognisable. But then he flips over the folded fabric around the zipper, and she doesn’t even have to look to know that he just unearthed a clean patch of </span>
  <em>
    <span>eggplant</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Damian,” she rasps, and her breaths are so shallow now she has to pause there for a second. His eyes meet hers in the meantime, and she’s too far gone to tell what the hell they’re saying. All she knows is that he </span>
  <em>
    <span>has</span>
  </em>
  <span> to listen to her. “Please go.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He half turns from her, and she feels so glad and so alone. Then he touches his ear. Comms.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Scarecrow is not involved. Civilian has been identified,” he hesitates, his head turning to sweep her body up and down, “Batgirl is down. Stephanie Brown requires immediate medical attention.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Batgirl</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It’s been a long time. Isn’t that funny? She is going to die in an alleyway, maybe right next to a rogue Robin, and it has absolutely nothing to do with Batgirl. What a marvellous way to double-traumatise the family.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“She requires— what are your injuries?” There’s the brat she remembers. Terrible bedside manner. Might as well let him assess the options.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Lungs,” long breath, “concush—” the words slides away, but Damian should understand that, “bones,” and there’s red on her fingers, actually, isn’t there, “blood.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Damian grows tenser and tenser as the list grows. As he should. It’s bad. She’s dying.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Into the comms, he says, “Pneumothorax, likely advanced. Concussion, likely severe. Some type of wound, not clear where. Multiple broken bones, including ribs. Medical attention is required.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a pause. Her skull throbs. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, find some medical attention.” True brat mode achieved. Very endearing. “I do not care, she is one of us. That should </span>
  <em>
    <span>count</span>
  </em>
  <span> for something.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Then he growls. Which hurts her ears. Then mutters something she probably wouldn’t want to hear anyways.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Has Gotham always been this cold? It’s so cold. It’s seeping underneath her skin. It hurts.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Brown.” When did he move close? One of his hands gently brushes the hair out of her face, and when did he get sweet? “They are useless. But you will pull through.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She tries to shake her head, and it is like every single inch of her neck is made of stone. It hurts to move, so badly everything statics. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s buzzing and bright lights and pain racing from the base of her neck to the backs of her eyelids. She can feel herself whimper. It hurts, it hurts so much.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Then the world comes back. It’s cold, and it all aches. Something keeps moving and moving. Her, the something is her.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Damian is shaking her. Desperately. She must have been out of it for fifteen seconds at most, but he’s still repeating her name. Over and over and </span>
  <em>
    <span>ohmigod.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He’s a child. He’s only sixteen. There’s an infestation of acne on his face. He still talks about finally getting his growth spurt every Thanksgiving. He’s trying to shake a woman with a potential spinal injury.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Brown,” he squeaks out, when he finally realises that her eyes are focused on him. Has he ever been this freaked out? “Please, do not move.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He’s so </span>
  <em>
    <span>scared</span>
  </em>
  <span>. She can’t. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t want you,” she doesn’t know if she’s speaking or mumbling or inner-monologuing, “see this. See me like this.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Some of that must get through, because he’s frowning at her like she’s the stupidest person he’s ever met. Like he isn’t pushing down so much fear she’s already afraid of the next time he does run into the scarecrow. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I am not leaving, Stephanie Brown,” he insists. Then he’s looking behind her. “You deserve too much respect.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Which is sweet. In such a fundamental way that she would cry any other day. When did he get so sweet?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She reaches for him, and her hand grips onto somewhere around his wrist. “So proud,” she whispers.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Which, for some reason, makes him pout. Her deathbed is not the occasion.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The pout turns into a long sigh, and she follows the way his breath turns to vapour in the chill. Her eyes really do ache. “Now is not the time to list off my personal faults, Brown.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Okay. This kid. Absolutely hilarious. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Of you,” she amends. His jaw tightens. Then, because it hurts just as badly to die as to watch him watch her die, she squeezes tighter, “please, go.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His mouth opens, and then there’s a thud. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a characteristic thud. Stephanie recognises it, even though the sound feels like it’s stomping on her brain. It’s the sound </span>
  <em>
    <span>he</span>
  </em>
  <span> makes when he wants people to know he’s there.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Damian recognises it too. Because there’s absolute relief on his face when he hears it, and then disappointment when he looks up. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She could’ve told him not to hope. Obviously, Bruce Wayne didn’t come here to provide her medical attention. He came because he thought someone should. Because he thought it would be kind to play a game of deja vu with her. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Father,” Damian begins anyways. Then stops. “There has been no change?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Batman’s voice is gruff, but there’s a gentleness in it she can’t help but admire. “We’re calling in outside help. The manor has fallen.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Her chest tightens so suddenly it feels like it’ll suck her in. Every part of her feels like it has a needle sticking through it and she can’t breathe and this can’t be real. Her limbs hurt so much, heavy and sore and like they’re been sanded down and pieced back together.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Alfred?” She croaks, and Damian doesn’t answer her. No, no, no.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A large, warm hand slides between her shoulder blades and shifts her over until something large and warm is supporting her whole weight. It’s nice. It’s Bruce, even if she can’t turn and see him. She lets her eyes flutter closed. The lids feel itchy and uncomfortable, but so does every part of her. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>In her head, the cowl is off. This time, it’s not Batman comforting her. It’s just Bruce.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s fine, Stephanie,” Bruce says, “it’s all fine.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Good. That’s good. It all hurts less than it did a minute ago. It’s like there’s a little film over the pain. Like having Bruce there numbs it. It would be so easy, right now, to just drift off. Let her breathing calm itself.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But there’s business to take care of. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s hard, finding enough breath to speak. It all rattles in her chest and comes up wet. “Don’t want Damian to—”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I know.” He makes some kind of movement, a head-jerk or a nod. “Damian, ask them where to send you. I left Dick behind, he probably needs some help.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Whatever argument Damian makes, because Damian definitely makes some kind of argument, must be non-verbal. There’s just silence around the buzzing, and then a very light tap on her cheek.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Goodbye, Brown,” he says. She doesn’t think she imagines that he sounds like crying.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Then it’s just her and Bruce, alone in the alley. Like nothing ever changed at all. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Robin,” he grunts, and it takes her a second to remember that that means </span>
  <em>
    <span>her</span>
  </em>
  <span> too, “report.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Is he being funny? Because that’s funny. Hah, what a long road. What a very, very long road.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Dad,” she starts, then stops. It hurts to think about what happened. It’s hard to get it all out. That’s fine, probably, she doesn’t doubt that Bruce will be getting to the bottom of all this when whatever’s over ends. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Dad,” she starts again, remembering the second-chance-i’ve-changed phone call that got her back into this godforsaken city. “Drunk.” Because nothing ever changes with him, really. “Demanding.” Which is vague, but it won’t take long to figure out he was trying to get her to join in on the crime escapades, “angry.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Which is self-explanatory.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The next part takes a moment to think about, because it all happened so fast. Every part of her feels like it’s tied together with strings. Strings pulled painfully taught. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Like he can feel her anxiety, Bruce’s hand wears up and down her arm. It’s comforting. It helps. Is this what being a real Robin would have been like? Or what having a father should have been like? </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It all aches, and now there are tears in her eyes.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Surprised,” she says, because how else do you summarise a chair to the back of the head? “Stunned.” Her father ranting, over and over again, about what a waste of a daughter he had, coming closer and her brain wouldn’t work. “Crowbar.” It must have been. She saw it on the table when she entered. It had put her on edge, but he had been so good so far.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Bruce flinches on ‘crowbar’. A voice in her mind, one that sounds like Tim, reminds her that she wouldn’t be the first Robin he lost to a crowbar.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Dumped.” Did her father plan this out? Did he assume that she was going to say no all along? Or did the perfect dumping ground just happen to come around? “Damian,” she finishes, just to close the circle. It’s short and neat. Not something that should have taken down Batgirl.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Not </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” she emphasises, and hopes he knows she means the costumes and crimefighting, “but family drama.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a pause, and she can feel him breathe.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It would be so easy to slip away.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Tim?” she asks. Barely more than a whisper.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s fine, Stephanie. Poorly-timed mission with the Teen Titans.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Thank everything under the sun.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“He knows,” she tells Bruce, because Tim has to. Even if they aren’t together. “Tell Cass—”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She gets cut off from her own coughing. It feels like her throat twisting up on itself. Bruce shushes her, kindly, and she’s going to miss the entire fucked up family.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Cass knows,” Bruce assures her. “So does Babs. So does your mom.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Her mom. Holy shit. Sometime today her mom would find out that her ex-husband had killed her daughter.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You tell her,” she chokes out, “not hospital.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Which is mean to Bruce, because her mom would probably accuse him of fifty different pseudo-crimes and send him into a year long spiral. But a Robin would step up and dig him out. One always did.  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He hums affirmation to her, and it vibrates into her body. Her shoulders relax. There’s so much left to do, so many places to go. But she’s so tired.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Goodbye, Batgirl,” he says. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s funny. She took the costume off three years ago, voluntarily, and went to nursing school so that it didn’t end like this. So that history didn’t repeat. It did, anyways. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Last time was senseless, a violent gang war at her feet. This time is too, taken out by a drunk failure of a father. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Before and between both, it wasn’t senseless at all.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She saved people. She met Tim and Cass and Babs and Dick and Jason and more and more. She watched Damian grow up, grow kinder and stronger. She found some sort of stability in Bruce and Alfred. She found her mother again. Found a way to make sure she wasn’t her father. She saved so many people. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She was </span>
  <em>
    <span>Batgirl</span>
  </em>
  <span>. That’s what she holds onto as she drifts out. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>She was Batgirl.</span>
  </em>
</p>
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